


Undead Memory

by I_prefer_the_term_antihero



Series: Castlevania [9]
Category: Castlevania (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst, Childhood Memories, During Canon, Gen, Ghosts, Introspection, Memories, Post-Season 2, Prior Tragedy, Season 2 spoilers, pre-season 3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:08:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29206395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_prefer_the_term_antihero/pseuds/I_prefer_the_term_antihero
Summary: What happened during that month in which Alucard was alone in the castle?Alucard dealing with the aftermath of S2, and trying to cope with the death—or, more accurately, the ghosts—of his parents.
Relationships: Alucard & Dracula & Lisa, Alucard & Dracula (Castlevania), Alucard | Adrian Tepes | Arikado Genya & Dracula Vlad Tepes | Mathias Cronqvist, Alucard | Adrian Tepes | Arikado Genya & Dracula Vlad Tepes | Matthias Cronquvist & Lisa, Alucard | Adrian Tepes | Arikado Genya & Lisa (Castlevania), Dracula Vlad Tepes | Mathias Cronqvist & Lisa
Series: Castlevania [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2207712
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	1. The Ticking of the Fire, the Hunger of the Clock

**Author's Note:**

> Another Alucard-centric fic, but actually about the show this time!! Whoo!! I'm excited to finally start posting this one. 
> 
> Believe it or not, I started this idea a while before S3 started, wanting to write something for the time after S2 of Alucard being alone in the castle. Then after S3 I wanted to write it both more and less XD  
> The idea of Alucard seeing ghosts brought up at the end of S2 is an interesting one, and one I thought deserved more exploration. As well as just that month where he's alone being something interesting to write about. 
> 
> This is one of those fics I wanted to post as a long one-shot, but ultimately got stuck and decided it would be better to break it up into chapters to make it more manageable for both reading and writing.  
> I said it'd be 4 chapters above, but I'm not quite sure exactly how many chapters it'll be. It just helps me to finish when I jot down a manageable ballpark number.
> 
> That being said, one of the reasons I hesitate to break things up into chapters, is because if people don't seem interested it severely inhibits my desire to keep writing that fic. So, it really does help my motivation a LOT when you comment and say you want to read more!! So just know that when you comment, you're helping more of this fic get written!!

Dracula had been the king of vampires for centuries. He walked with death at his stride and destruction lurking in his shadow. All the humans feared him, all the vampires revered him.

Today none would have recognized the husk in the study. Those blank eyes didn’t even have strength enough for malice towards the humans he waged war upon, just…infinite exhaustion. Like killing the world with a lazy wave of his hand. Upon a glance, onlookers would have never said he was the king of the vampires, much less the most feared and fearsome of them all.

Footsteps sounded off behind him, a gentle hand along his shoulder. 

_“Why don’t you come play with us?”_ Lisa asked. _“It’s not like you’ve got plans or anything.”_

 _“Yes, Father! Come play!”_ Smaller footsteps now. _“Look! Look what I found!”_

 _“Oh! Adrian, where did you get that?”_ Lisa laughed, though there was concern in her voice.

_“Down by the pond!”_

_“Now, Honey.” She knelt down. “You can’t just take animals from their natural environment.”_

_“Why not? I’ll be nice to it! It’ll be a wonderful pet!”_

_“Is this because your father won’t let you get a dog?”_

_“Maaaybe.”_

_“I’m sure you_ _would_ _be nice to it, honey.”_ She ruffled his hair. _“But, well…how would you feel if giant hand came and took you from your home?”_

_“Oh…”_ Adrian’s voice fell. _“I wouldn’t like that.”_

_“How about we go put it back together?”_

_“Okay.”_

_“You coming honey?”_

The fire asked him to stay. 

*****

_“I’m going into town.”_ Lisa threw her cloak and a smile over her shoulders, _“I’ll see you in about a week. Take good care of Adrian while I’m gone, okay?”_

He almost heard the ghost of his own voice: _“We’ll try not to have too much fun without you.”_

A phantom kiss on his cheek. 

He barely raised his eye over his shoulder. There was nothing. 

_We told you not to look,_ the flames chided him. 

******

The world he once knew turned, and this time the footsteps were louder—of someone taller. 

_“Father, look what I found!”_ It was Adrian’s voice, but deeper. Adrian’s hand on his shoulder, but his touch wasn’t so tiny. _“This manuscript has to be at least a thousand years old! Where did you get this?!”_

_—(Some time long gone, just as you are)—_

The flames licked at his ear, and told him not to answer.

*******

_“Then find the one who did the deed. If you loose an army of the night on Wallachia, you cannot undo it, and many thousands of people just as innocent as her will suffer and die…I won’t let you do it. I grieve with you, but I won’t let you commit genocide.”_

_“There are no innocents! Not anymore!”_

He dug his nails into the chair, leaving angry gashes in the leather. 

_You have nothing left to lose now._ The fire hissed. _Just stay with us._

So he did.

* * *

Alucard leans over the counter, using his knife to make precise shapes in the dough. 

_“That smells good!”_

_“Oh you want one, do you?”_ A woman’s teasing voice. 

_“Only if I’m allowed."_ Alucard looks through his arm to see a little version of himself speaking sheepishly, putting his hands behind his back, as if he’d previously taken one when he wasn’t allowed, and feels the need to be extra polite now. 

_“Yes.”_ She smiles. “Yes you may.” She hands him a cookie, and his face splits into a smile. 

Instead of successfully make the next cut in his own cookie Alucard fumbles with the knife.

The woman’s laugh echoes in his ear, shifting the scene. _“No, honey, like_ this. _It’s not the same as when you’re using a sword.”_

He wants to look at her, but decides to lean further over his own cookie dough, balling his free hand into a fist.

 _“She’s right, you know,”_ a man’s—well, vampire’s—voice says from behind him, _“You can be gentler with food than with flesh. Though,”_ he chuckles, _“I suppose, for me it’s the same thing.”_

 _“Vlad.”_ Lisa warns. _“Try not be so vulgar in front of our son.”_

Alucard shuts his eyes, as if the scene is indeed vulgar.

—(Rather than the truth: he can't bear how much the words want to make him smile…and he certainly isn’t going to let himself cry)—

 _“I think you forget, this_ is _a vampire’s lair.”_

 _“I think_ you _forget that it’s both a vampire_ and _a human’s home.”_

Alucard doesn’t realize the knife is cutting into his finger until he the silence allows the clock to click its tongue in disappointment. 

********

_“Woosh!”_ A child zooms past Alucard in the hall.

He turns to see a younger version of himself carrying a toy bat above him—floating a few inches off the ground himself. 

_“Wait for me, Son!”_ His father isn’t far behind. He could easily dash after him in a flash of power, but he clearly wants his son to think he's at least _somewhat_ normal. 

Alucard thinks he feels wind brush past him as the memories speed by, but when they fade from earshot he realizes the cold is nothing more than that.

The clock in the other room chimes to notify him it's noon.

 _You’ll never have that again,_ say the bells. 

*********

_“And so, the prince and princess were married, and they lived happily ever after.”_ Lisa closes the book. 

_“Aww, it’s over?”_ Her son whines.

_“It was a happy ending though!” She laughs. “That’s all we can ask for, right?”_

_“May I suggest something with a little more substance next time?”_ Her husband asks from the other couch, turning the page of his own book.

—( _If only_ you _were made of substance after all)—_

_“What do you have against fairy tales?”_

_“Nothing. I’m not one for fanciful romances, dashing princes, and the sort.”_

_“Oh you’re not, are you?”_ She takes a rose from a vase on the table beside her, smelling it.

He rolls his eyes.

Alucard gets up to read his book in another room, trying to shove the—

_(I_

_miss_

_you)_

out of his head. 

Why do the ghosts have to remind him of those stories, of her voice as she read them to him? Why not allow him to read his book today in peace, and blissfully forget?

The silence closes in on him from all sides, and the clock ticks in time to his footsteps.

**********

The light from the window splits into dappled bits by the shattered mirror as Alucard runs his finger over the spines of the books, looking for a specific one.

_“There are no innocents! Not anymore!”_

This time he can’t help whirling around at the sound, horror and fear striking him, and for a moment he's there again, and there's only the sound of his heart, and his father’s raised hand.

When his eyes graze nothing, the scene dissipates like a breath. 

Alucard’s hand instinctively moves to his chest, a dull sting echoing at the place where his father’s nails had carved, the tracks remaining in his skin that would probably never completely heal.

He abandons his pursuit of the book, his footsteps getting louder as he marches out of the room. 

_They’re getting worse, aren’t they?_ Askes the clock.

***********

Alucard stares at a speck of dirt on the canopy in his bed. It looks kinda like a frog. Or maybe Hungary. 

Footsteps sound at the doorway—small ones trying to mask themselves. Once the steps would have made him shoot up and summon his sword. He's used to the ghosts by now. 

He narrows his eyes, trying to look without actually sitting up, and sees a small golden face half-hidden in the doorway. 

A cold wind passes through him, and for a moment he can't breathe, and draws a hand to his mouth. 

_“Having trouble sleeping?”_ Lisa’s ghost—(the thing that passed through him)—sits on the edge of the bed. 

Adrian nods. 

She pats the bed beside her. 

Adrian runs in, as if both relief and fear propel him. He jumps up beside her, making the bed hop a little. 

Vlad stirs on the other side, grunting a question. 

_“Adrian’s had a nightmare.”_ She runs her hand along her son’s back. 

Another grunt.

 _“Do you want to talk about it?”_ Lisa asks her son. 

_“Well…there was this…This demon was chasing me. Well, I didn’t know exactly what it was, but it sounded really big…I was really scared…I didn’t know what to do!"_

_“What’re you scared of a little demon for?”_ Vlad mutters, half asleep. _“You’re strong enough to take those monsters down, son.”_

_Lisa chuckles, twisting a lock of her son's hair around her finger. “Even if you weren’t—which, you definitely are—your dad is the king of vampires. You know you can always call for assistance, right?”_

Another grunt from his father.

That, at least, makes Adrian smile. 

Alucard is sure there's only one clock in the room, but, as the silence overtakes the space, it seems every clock in the castle decides to begin chattering with ferocity. 

He lays a while in the silence, trying to will his brain into sleep. 

Then sits up sharply, throwing off the covers, telling to the clock, and the empty room, in a low voice; 

“I have to get out of here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Yes I'd like to explore the ghosts concept, let's think about this more in depth.  
> Me: How do you think we should start the fic? Maybe some scenes of Alucard actually seeing more of ghosts?  
> My brain: Hey, if Alucard saw ghosts do you think maybe Dracula did too?  
> My brain: ...  
> My brain: Why are you crying? 
> 
> Shoutout to [@it-burns-when-i-pee](https://it-burns-when-i-pee.tumblr.com) on tumblr for giving me the clock idea for Alucard's section!!
> 
> P.S. I recently made physical books of my fics! If you want to check that out [here are some](https://symphonyofthewrite.tumblr.com/post/642229443110322176/hey-i-wanted-to-show-you-guys-something-i-made)[ links/posts](https://i-prefer-the-term-antihero.tumblr.com/post/642072520377401344/im-so-excited-to-be-able-to-share-this-with-you) on my tumblr(s)!!


	2. Reminders

There were no graves. Dracula and Lisa didn’t get graves. The rest of the world would have said they didn’t deserve to rest in peace. 

Antigone would say Polynices deserved to sing in Olympus all the same. 

The only grave they got was a castle. And many would say it was better than most—that they’d take a castle over a headstone, a mausoleum, or the ground any day. They’d say a castle was a hell of a lot better than being dumped down the sewage grate. 

And all that’s fair, but perhaps the bigger problem was this: there were no remains. 

They both burned. One in holy fire, one in hell. (And who could say where they truly ended up, if there was a heaven and hell after all?)

All that was left of Lisa Tepes was a pile of charcoal on an altar to a priests own pride. 

And all that was left of Vlad Tepes was a ring, and a soot stain on the carpet. 

Most would say they got what they deserved; to die without chance at Olympus.

Adrian doesn’t know where to put his flowers. 

Most children bury their parents eventually, but usually this is when they have children of their own to keep them company, and their parents have been bouncing grandchildren on their knees for at least a year or two, with white hair and crinkled smiles, barely able to walk, or see: sick and ready to greet the gods.

Adrian may look old enough to settle down, but he’s younger than most would surmise. And while he can certainly handle himself, he was not prepared for his parents to die within a year of each other…especially considering that the parent who was meant to be immortal died by his own hand. 

He would have liked to have some respite in his own home.

But perhaps, more important than where to put flowers, there was most unfortunate side effect of the lack of remains, and the castle grave:

Ghosts.

And this isn’t the pearly white wraiths wandering around saying ‘boo’, or skulls that float about the head gnashing their teeth. Not even a chained apparition to remind one of their sins.

This is something much worse. Worse because they belong to the house’s owner. Worse because their true grave is his head. 

—(And that place never rested)—

Their ghosts wander the castle, not just a graveyard. This castle seems to have an affinity for the undead.

Maybe not everyone could see them. He tries not to indulge the thought that maybe there’s nothing there at all, and they’re nothing more than undead memory.

Alucard has been seeing ghosts since the moment he was left alone in this place. 

He’d rather have a grave to mourn them at, and converse with the memories, than watch their ghosts keep him up at night, unable to touch, or to talk to them. 

He should remind himself to look up the definition of ‘torment’ later.

At first it was his father’s steps when he walked up the stairs. His mother’s smiles, his own young laughter when he sat in the study. When he sat at the table to eat, he watched the vampire king tossing a young boy into the air, both laughing like fairy wing beats, as Lisa watched on from the table. Alucard tried not to lose his appetite. 

Then they were given voice: it was Father’s lessons when he looked for a book in the library. Mother’s stories as he sat reading, making him incapable of concentrating to his own book all the while. Baking cookies together in the kitchen. Father allowing him his first drink—(of wine or blood? Take a guess. He only needed one of them, after all)—as he walked through the cellar. Mother decorating the castle, making it look a little nicer, a little more alive. Not all of them were positive. Their arguing voices down the hallway. His own tears. 

Father’s claws against his chest.

And he wouldn’t dare get close to that room. Because whenever he walks past the door, he can still hear his father speak to him like he did when he was still a child dressed in sunlight, and there was nothing but love. 

Mother, father and…himself. As if he died long ago with them. As if the happy child he was within them is gone. As if he’s no longer the Adrian who sat with his parents, read with them, baked cookies, and laughed with them…but the Alucard who killed them. 

And, well, maybe he didn’t kill his mother, but sometimes he didn’t know what else to think but to blame himself for the thought that he could have saved her. 

And he did kill his father. 

He still feels that stake in his hand when he walks by that room—(But it wasn’t a stake was it? It was the bedpost of his childhood bed, as if ripping his childhood at the seams and denying everything he was born as). He still feels its splinters in his fingers, the smell of pine, the feeling of it piercing his father’s chest, the way his heartbeat refused to stop—(he rested his head on his chest once, the constancy of the rhythm was comforting then). The warmth of his father’s blood draining over his fingers. The sound of his father’s ripping voice. The unearthly, ungodly howling of the souls trapped inside him—(was he really so bad?). He could still smell his flesh burning.

He still wakes up in the middle of the night with the image of his fathers face melting off its bones as it came closer to him, reaching out as if to to caress his son’s cheek, seared onto his eyes—(is this how Victor Frankenstein felt when the creature smiled at his window?)

But when the morning came, he took that ring and he wore it on a chain around his neck all the same, to remind him of a few things:

One: that love is one of those things that is free, but comes at a high price. If you take it lightly, it will leave you heavily.

Two, an addendum to one: that love is not soft. Love is not flowery words, or even the insatiable desires the romance novels say it is. Love is an insidious fire, when you have it, it rages, and you know what warmth is. When the fireplace is empty it aches, and when your heart breaks your chest gets cut on all the pieces. And underestimating it, calling it weakness, will always be your undoing.

Three—(one that was beginning to weigh heaviest): that living and immortality are not the same thing. Vlad may have been immortal, but he was only ever alive with Lisa. 

Four: to always know where he came from…and where he didn’t want to end up.

Five, and final: that though he had saved lives, though it was noble, and the stories and songs would say he was brave, and though Trevor and Sypha would say it was for the greater good…he would always be the son who loved his father…and the son who drove the stake into his father’s heart.

All for love. 

He can find respite from the memories sometimes. He finds himself spending too much time down in the Belmont hold, reading, organizing, putting away ancestors—(ancestors not of his, ones that didn’t come back). Learning, pursing his lip in disapproval, or laughing to himself at the thought of some of the things Trevor’s relatives did (making a mental note to use the story against Trevor when he next saw him). Thinking of his friends…and trying not to think of them, lest they become ghosts too.

He likes going out into the woods to get food, and water, and fresh air. He wavers there at times, wondering if maybe he could just… leave. He spends more time out there than is strictly necessary. 

Sometimes he runs out into the woods—well, more precisely padding, cantering on paws—and other times flies—trying to make sure his tongue can taste freedom, and his wings can snare sunlight, before he turns back.

But he always has to return. Return to the stuffy, putrefied remains of the castle. The air where he hears his parents whisper sweet words that are gone, where memory reconstructed from fairy castles sweet worlds he’s ripped away. 

Would it be so hard to just leave? 

Surely we can let the poor wandering souls in the woods find refuge. It was a grave after all. Just let the lost rest against the headstones, though they know not whose skeletons lie beneath them.

He leans against Trevor’s tree, and sees a young boy playing on the branches—laughing, free—and smiles…before it becomes gasp and grimace, and he shakes his head, returning to the castle. 

Not them too. 

He thought he could take it. The grief. The ghosts. The wrath of the gods

But he can’t stay. 

Not forever. That is to say, he can’t leave for long. Just to visit town, to see another person or two, to get out of his head, and pray the specters won’t follow him. 

He slings his bag over his shoulder, along with the coat he always wore—the one that smells like the campfires he sat at with Trevor and Sypha—and sighs as he walks out the door.

He has another grave to visit.


End file.
